Thursday, October 31, 2013

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Most people's photographs consist of shots of family, friends and holiday locations. And why not? Cameras are good for recording people, their activities and the places they go. Like most enthusiast photographers most of my photographs show a subject that I want to record or interpret. Consequently, only 5-10% of my photographs are family shots. I don't include in that figure those images where my wife - it's usually my long suffering wife - is included for scale or as a focal point.

The other day I broke off from a series of landscapes to take a family photograph of my wife in a small wood by a waterfall. Unfortunately I forgot that I'd got the two second self-timer on. When nothing happened in response to my press of the shutter button I moved the camera down to set it to single shot and, as I did so, the shutter fired. The image that was saved shows the arc of my hand through the air, and recorded for posterity as an impressionistic blur, my wife in her red cardigan among the fallen leaves. When I looked at the shot on the camera screen, thinking to erase it, I quite liked what I saw and decided instead to save it.

I once went to an exhibition where every photograph looked like it had been taken by the photographer as he walked along with the camera dangling from his hand, or he had thrown it casually into the grass and the shutter had tripped. There were no straight horizons, no attempt at composition, no sharp shots, no main subjects etc. I remember thinking at the time that this looked like deliberate operator error. It also occurred to me that photography, more than perhaps any other art (when the aim of the photography is art), can produce effective images by accident, or when the camera doesn't record what the photographer intended. That wasn't the case in the exhibition: all I saw was the work of a charlatan seeking to impress by his disregard for photographic conventions. Nor is it the case with my photograph, though it will be a fun shot in the family album. Moreover, I'm tempted to try and reproduce the motion blur in a more controlled way to see if I can produce something more worthwhile with the effect. Watch this space!

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

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The derelict field barn in today's main photograph can be seen on the first ot the smaller photographs. It is at a position on a line approximately ten o'clock from the centre of the image. It's one of the more recent features of the fields on this section of hillside between Langcliffe and the old Craven Quarry. How old is it? Probably nineteenth century judging by the style and the stone main roof, though it could be earlier. An extension with a slate roof is newer.

I've often looked across the valley at these fields, especially when the sun is low, because then the shadows reveal the work of farmers over hundreds, possibly thousands, of years. The most obvious remains are several cultivation terraces or lynchets. These appear to be deliberate constructions rather than those that passively arise due to ploughing across the slope. The west-facing aspect of the valley side would mean that terraces enabled farmers to make easier use of the land and maximise the warmth of the sun. Celtic field systems often exhibit such features, and they continued to be used into the medieval period. There are also a number of close parallel ridges that go down the hillside. These are long medieval fields that appear to have had earth or perhaps stone boundary walls, probably to separate them from neighbouring plots. Some are not unlike the Gaelic "lazy beds", cultivated banks separated by channels, an agricultural system not unknown in England, though some here must surely have been simply narrow holdings (see the photograph taken from nearby with the floodwater). Small, square fields can also be detected that are probably Romano-British in origin.

The narrowness of the Ribble valley at this point leaves only one or two field widths available in the valley bottom. These would benefit from silt deposition when the river flooded but during such times they would be unusable. Consequently early farmers would have had to clear stone and trees from the inundation-free lower slopes to make fields suitable for planting or for improving to make hay and pasture. Grass is the main crop today. It feeds both sheep and cattle, beef and dairy, both as it grows and in the form of silage or hay. The fields that are deeper green, showing less brown, indicate where herbicides and fertiliser have been used to improve the grass. Farmers long ago, as today, must have carefully weighed the costs against the benefits of improving the ground on the higher slopes. Often the answer will have been to run fewer sheep on the unimproved grass of the rougher ground and "tops" and bring them down into the valley for the winter.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

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One of the interesting things about ageing is the perspective that it brings. As a young child I lived in Stackhouse, a small group of houses and a farm that can be barely glimpsed in the trees towards the bottom right of this photograph. Though I was small I got to know the limestone valley side behind where we lived, the cliffs, the beeches, the rowans, the bracken and the sheep that wandered over the rugged landscape. When we moved to live in Settle I continued to walk the area, and I've carried on doing so regularly ever since. As a child, even as a teenager, I wasn't aware that the valley side was slowly changing. But, as the years have passed those small changes have become more obvious.

The bracken has spread, the drystone walls are not as well maintained as they were, the sheep are not almost exclusively Swaledales and are fewer, ash saplings are multiplying in and around the outcropping limestone, and the dew pond is becoming ever more cracked and overgrown with weed. The remains of children's play - dens and the like - are no longer to be seen. Most of these changes must be a consequence of fewer sheep and an increase in the amount of time that farmers are devoting to the core business of producing meat and wool. I haven't seen children on the hills without their parents for decades; a reflection of the concerns of adults and changes in the play of youngsters. Older people can frequently be heard expressing regret at change. However, I think this frequently arises from a selfish yearning for a known past and fear of a different and constantly evolving present and future. I've found myself fascinated by the rise of "scrub" on this part of the "scar" landscape. If it doesn't take over completely the changes that it brings must enrich the wildlife that the land can support.

We recently spent a few days in the place of my upbringing. We experienced quite a bit of rain, not unusual for the area, and something that people settling there on the back of a couple of pleasant summer holidays soon have to come to terms with. However, we did have one unseasonally balmy day when the Ribble valley showed off its colourful trees, the hills could be walked in shirt sleeves and distant Penyghent could be photographed without its obscuring cap of cloud.

Friday, October 25, 2013

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The origins of Stilton cheese are hard to pin down. I remember being told that it got its name from the fact that in the 1700s it was taken from its various makers in Leicestershire to the Bell Inn, Stilton, where it was loaded onto waggons for delivery to London along the Great North Road. If that were true then "Where did Stilton cheese originate?" would be a great pub quiz question because the answer would not be "Stilton".

Today, due to the terms of the Protected Geographical Status (PGS) of Stilton Cheese that was granted in 1996, the cheese cannot be made in Stilton. This is because the village is in Cambridgeshire (formerly in Huntingdonshire) and the PGS applies to only Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire and Bedfordshire. In fact none is currently made in Bedfordshire, with manufacture only at three Leicestershire and two Nottinghamshire locations. The white and the blue Stilton that we buy usually comes from Long Clawson in Leicestershire. Blue Stilton is probably my favourite cheese. It's clearly an acquired taste and something I wouldn't have eaten in my youth, but advancing years have seen me gravitate to it before most other cheeses, even ahead of Wensleydale, a cheese that I also like a lot.

Today's photograph shows the Bell Inn at Stilton. A datestone on one of the gable ends shows that it was built in 1642. Alterations were made c.1700 and later in the eighteenth century. Part of the inn was converted into three houses in the nineteenth century. The building fell into disuse for part of the twentieth century but renovation in 1985 returned it to its original use. The building is made of Ketton limestone with some later brick and roofs made of Collyweston stone and nineteenth century pantiles.The carriage arch remains but, as often happens these days, it has been incorporated into the building with glazing.The inside arch has an inscription, painted black, that read, "London 74 Huntingdon 12 Buckden 14 Stamford 14 Miles". The splendid wrought ironwork on the main elevation has been restored and it proudly projects the inn's sign out from the building to where it can be clearly seen by all who pass by.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

A new crematorium is currently being built near Surfleet in Lincolnshire. Its purpose is to supplement the existing crematoria in the area and reduce the journey times for funerals in the south of the county. One of the first things that the contractors did, after a service road had been built, was to plant two hundred trees and a kilometre of hedging on the ten acre site. As with most such facilities the aim is to surround the main building withattractive parkland. Reading a newspaper report about progress on the development I noted that hornbeam has been chosen as the tree to form an avenue from the main road to the crematorium building and chapel. Cemeteries and crematoria are good places to go in search of interesting trees. The desire to beautify the place where people are laid to rest leads to careful consideration of the disposition and type of trees that feature in the grounds. Boston cemetery has a big avenue of mixed trees featuring both pines and limes. Long Sutton cemetery is reached by an avenue of lime trees. The much smaller cemetery in the village of Bicker has a couple of noteworthy silver birches.

I was in Boston cemetery the other day having a look at the architecture. However, I also took some time to see the kinds of trees that were planted there. The older part of the site is something of a wildlife haven, and here the trees have, for the most part, reached maturity. It was in this section that I came across the red oak (a tree of North American origin) shown in the main photograph. It's deeply cut and pointed leaves were begining to show the hues of autumn. These are appearing a little later than usual due to the recent mild weather. In an area that seemed to have closely packed graves of the 1930s and 1940s I came upon a copper leaved tree that I foolishly didn't take the time to identify - is it a beech? Perhaps its something else entirely. I'll check if I visit there again.

Monday, October 21, 2013

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Sometimes, when my wife and I are visiting a church, a particular memorial catches our eye. It may be its modesty that makes it stand apart. Sometimes it's the ridiculous grandiosity. Occasionally it's an unusual name. Or it may be historically interesting. And then there are those whose arresting poignancy just makes you stop, pause a while and reflect. We recently came across an example of the latter in the church at Sharnbrook, Bedfordshire. The simple, straightforward inscription on the unaffected tablet needs no commentary from me - it speaks for itself. However, I did find a reference to the circumstances of the deaths of the five brothers and their mother that gives a little context to the tragic events described.

Arnold was the first to die, on 31 October 1914, a mere 10 weeks after the start of the First World War. Next was Hugh, but not until 1st March 1918, when Ada may have been feeling that her sons would survive the conflict. He was lost when his ship, HMS Calgarian, was sunk by a torpedo from a submarine. Later that year in France, on 27th September, Lewis died, and a few weeks afterwards, quite nearby on 15th October, James was killed. Cecil was killed after the war in Europe had ended when Ada must have thought that surely her losses had come to an end. He was a member of the British forces in Egypt involved in maintaining the rule of Empire and lost his life in a rebellion on 18th March 1919.

Ada Maud Jarvis had ten children and was 69 years of age when she died, a mere four months after the death of her fifth son.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

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There was a time, from the late 1970s to some time in the 1990s when my Olympus OM1n's lens, usually a 50mm 1.8, but sometimes a 135mm 2.8, was rarely seen without a yellow, orange or red filter screwed on to it. For my personal (as opposed to family) photography, I did a lot of black and white work, and the boost in contrast that this gave to Ilford FP4 suited me fine. I occasionally fitted one to my little Ricoh 500RF but I more usually shot colour - Fujichrome and Ektachrome - with that camera, so a polarising filter suited it best. One of the pleasures of the change from film to digital is the ability to mimic the effect of a one of these filters after a colour shot has been converted to black and white. Today's main photograph shows just that. In this instance the digital equivalent of a yellow filter has been applied. This won't be to the liking of some purists, but I'm very happy with it.

I've photographed the Maud Foster windmill in Boston, Lincolnshire, several times and posted a few of my better shots on the blog. It's named after the big agricultural drain on whose bank it stands, and is one of the most attractive mills that I know - elegant, tall, with lovely brick and interesting ancillary buildings. On this occasion, however, it wasn't its overall appeal that I reflected on; I got to thinking about its sails. It is relatively unusual in having 5, an odd number. An even number of sails was more often favoured, usually 4, 6 or 8, because with this configuration, the argument goes, opposing sails can be removed for repair or maintenance and the windmill retains balance. Now, for reasons that I find hard to put into words I find 5 sails very visually satisfying. Better than the four that is most often seen, and better too than six - which I don't dislike. Definitely an improvement on eight, a number that makes a windmill look like a desk fan - yes Heckington windmill, I'm thinking of you. Perhaps its the anthropomorphic form of the 5-sailer that appeals - a reminder of Leonardo's Vitruvian man. As I say, I can't articulate these likes and dislikes particularly well, any more than I can account for my preferring a two button jacket over a three button version, but it's definitely how I see things.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

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Down a grassy Cambridgeshire lane, surrounded by trees, arable fields to the west and pasture to the south, lies the church at Steeple Gidding. It is only half a mile or so on footpaths across the fields from the church at Little Gidding - see previous post. A church has been here since at least the twelfth century, the date of the south doorway which is the oldest part of the existing building. Records show that it had a tower by 1260 and that must have led to the name of the small settlement of which it is a part acquiring the prefix "Steeple" to distinguish it from nearby Little Gidding and Great Gidding. Most of the building dates from the 1300s, including the tower which must have replaced the original one. Pevsner describes this, very appropriately, as "rather underfed" due to its slender proportions.

The interior is now largely empty of furnishings and pews. It was declared redundant in 1971 when the congregation had but one communicant (aged 90). It is now in the care of The Churches Conservation Trust. Though it's sad to see a church fall out of use a stripped interior does present opportunities, not least to admire the marvellous medieval stone floor. The light through the south aisle and clerestory windows, uninterrupted by ranks of dark pews, tables etc, made the old stone positively glow on the day of my visit and simply I had to take a photograph. It appeared that the church may have been used for an occasional service, as sometimes happens in redundant churches that remain consecrated, because the two remaining pews had been moved together to face the chancel arch. George Gilbert Scott renovated the building in 1872-73 and appears to have done so sensitively. Further work was done in 1899 and more recently, in 1976. It was a pleasure to come upon the church and equally good to see it being kept both weather-tight and open to visitors.

What did slightly disappoint me, however, was the large, wide, yew tree on the south side of the building, perfectly positioned to prevent me taking a photograph of the church from my favourite position in the south east corner of the churchyard (see small photograph). It sometimes seems that such trees are deliberately planted to thwart me!

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

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In 1626 Nicholas Ferrar was ordained and set about creating an Anglican religious community at the family's holdings at Little Gidding. The small community, variously calculated at between thirty and sixty people, lived by High Church principles and the Book of Common Prayer. They had a school and employed themselves in teaching, looking after the health of local people and in bookbinding (Ferrar worked on biblical indices called Concordances). Though the community discipline was demanding with three services a day and just two meals, there were no vows after the manner of monasteries. Little Gidding attracted admirers and critics, King Charles 1 visiting on three occasions, the critics being mainly Puritans who saw the followers as heretics. The community lasted barely thirty years and ended with the deaths of the main movers. Thereafter it was somewhat forgotten until the Oxford Movement rescued it from obscurity. Since that time it has been an inspiration of sorts and interest in the small community has never waned.

The church that we see there today dates from 1714 and excavations show it to be smaller than Ferrar's remodelled medieval building. It has a symmetrical stone facade with a large door surround and giant angle pilasters with obelisk pinnacles. The whole composition is topped by a bellcote with a steep pyramid pierced by three rectangular holes. Do these represent the Trinity? The rest of the building, except for the windows surrounds, is red brick and quite utilitarian. The interior is remarkable for its college-style nave seating (see main photograph) and a chancel that is the same width as the nave: basically an eastward extension of the space, minus the seating.

"Little Gidding" is known to poetry lovers as the title of a long poem by the U.S. born and naturalised British poet, T.S.Eliot (1888-1965). It is the fourth part of his masterpiece, The Waste Land, the poem that led to him being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948. This Modernist, meditative work is underpinned by Eliot's religious belief and draws upon Christian thoughts, traditions and history as well as mythology. He visited the church at Little Gidding in 1936 and was sufficiently influenced by its history to make it the title of his poem. Excerpts from it can be seen on the walls of the nave.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

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After the coldest spring for a few decades the summer of 2013 eventually turned out to be one of the warmest and sunniest of recent years. There were blue skies and white clouds a-plenty, enough to satisfy the requirements of the lover of warmth and the photographer of sunny, congenial scenes. Even the farmers were happy because precipitation arrived reasonably regularly in ample but not excessive quantities. Early October proved to be significantly milder than usual too, with temperatures daily above 20° Celsius. However, much as I enjoy mild weather and the feel of the sun on my back, the photographer in me does eventually yearn for more dramatic weather, the sort that the British Isles is known for, with fronts moving across the land bringing cloud, rain, sun, breezes and the rest: what the forecasters describe as "changeable" weather. Well, as the previous post rather suggests, with a dip in temperatures, a rise in wind speeds and increased cloud cover, change is now upon us.

Today's photograph was taken as that change arrived. It shows the decorative roof of a building on the corner of New Road and Hall Place in Spalding, Lincolnshire. Across its ashlar face, between the ground and first floors, stone lettering proclaims that it was built for S & G Kingston, Land Agents and Surveyors. It was erected in 1907, the work of J.B.Corby & Sons, and is in a free style, a sort of modified Jacobean. The windows have mullions and transoms, decorative oriels sit over the main entrance and at each end of the curved facade, and above are turrets, a strapwork balustrade, tall chimneys and a weather vane. It was this cluster of verticals that caught my eye when I saw them sunlit against deeply dark clouds that threatened rain. The contrast of the glowing stonework against the black sky appealed to me and so I took my photograph.

The drama of a sunlit subject against an uncharacteristic dark sky has always appealed to me. Unfortunately photographs with these qualities aren't easily acquired because a suitable subject doesn't always present itself in the right place and sometimes a camera isn't to hand. I did, however, catch an old walnut tree in these circumstances last year.

Friday, October 11, 2013

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The other evening we were in the Lincolnshire town of Louth. Unusually I wasn't there with photography in mind. However, I was carrying my pocket camera. As we walked up Eastgate, dodging the showers and occasionally pausing in closed shop doorways as the downpours intensified, I admired the reflections of the car headlights on the wet road, the glow from the street lamps and the brightness of the windows that were still lit. Those features, together with the light that remained in the cloudy sky, suggested a photograph and so I took several quick shots. This is the best of the bunch with its balanced composition achieved by the road and buildings leading from the main point of interest, the prominent car on the right, to the secondary point of interest,the church spire on the left.

As we continued to the business that brought us to the town I reflected on how something as unpromising, and often unwelcome and unpleasant, as rain can change a scene so that it becomes a much better subject for a photograph. It's essentially those reflections on the wet surfaces of the roads and pavements that effect the transformation, multiplying the highlights against the dark background. It reminds me of the way the sea or any stretch of water magnifies the power of a sunset.

Over the years I've found rain both a fruitful subject in itself and a great enhancer of a subject. Raindrops on the window pane can make a fascinating subject when paired with good light and an interesting background. So too can raindrops on leaves or flowers. And familiar subjects can be transformed when bright sunlight and fair weather is eschewed in favour of a downpour, even if you are sheltering under an umbrella at the time.

Wednesday, October 09, 2013

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The stained glass windows and lamps of the U.S. designer, Louis Comforty Tiffany (1848-1933) are internationally renowned. The colours, style, drawing, shapes and lines that he used show him to be allied to the Art Nouveau and Aesthetic movements. His work was popular at the time of its creation and remains so today. There are examples in the British Isles - the Haworth Art Gallery at Accrington has Europe's largest collection of pieces - and windows can be found in private houses, and a few public buildings. However, unsurprisingly, most of his work is in the United States.

Bearing that in mind, imagine my surprise when walking around the church at Kimbolton in Cambridgeshire (formerly in Huntingdonshire) and coming upon one of Tiffany's stained glass windows. All the more remarkable because it isn't mentioned at all in the relevant county edition of Pevsner. Had it been taken away for repair when he visited? Who knows? The window is at the east end of the south aisle where it adds an unearthly glow to that corner of the church. It was commissioned by the widow of the Duke of Manchester as a memorial to her two daughters who both died young. The Countess was an American of Cuban extraction so that may account for the choice of stained glass artist. Unfortunately the tops of two eighteenth century memorials impinge on the bottom corners of the window, so a full view (or photograph) of the stained glass is impossible to achieve. The composition shows Christ with two girls, surrounded by children and angels, all set in traditional architectural canopies with putti gazing down from the tracery above. One of the most interesting features of the window is that none of the clothing is represented by a single colour: rather, multiple colours are softly blend together. This gives an overall iridescence to the piece that put me in mind of some Symbolist work by the likes of Gustave Moreau.

When I first saw the window I was captivated because, compared with most English stained glass it is unusual. Moreover, it has a rich, jewel-like quality. However, I was also unsettled by it because, for me, the richness of the effects that Tiffany deploys evoke something akin to decadence rather than reverence. The quality of the figure drawing doesn't help in that respect: the flanking children look odd, gaunt, emaciated even. I've read somewhere that Tiffany wasn't especially keen to tackle religious subjects in stained glass, and after viewing this window I can see something of why that might be. His techniques seem more suited to secular and non-figurative subjects. Looking at the approach of the Kimbolton window again I can see it being more successfully applied to, say, an Arthurian illustration or something from the Norse sagas.

I occasionally come across stained glass windows where the style of the artist seems at odds with the subject. Last year I wrote about Walter Crane's "psychedelic" window in Holy Trinity Hull, and several years ago I was taken to task by someone over what I think is a downright weird, "storybook" window by the wife of Whistler in Orton church, Cumbria. On the whole I'd put Tiffany's window at Kimbolton alongside those two: interesting, not without some appeal and certainly bravely different in approach, but ultimately unsatisfactory.

Monday, October 07, 2013

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The other day I watched a tractor as it began to break up the surface of a field that had given up its wheat crop a few weeks ago. As the driver began his work I watched with incredulity as the vehicle reared up, stallion-like, on its large rear wheels, the front pair resting on nothing but several feet of fresh air. Clearly the weight that had been fixed to the front of the tractor was insufficient for the job in hand. After a few moments the tractor set off again and once more its front wheels went high in the air. The driver's tinkering with the front counter-balance weight was followed by a couple more less spectacular "take offs", and then, after a final adjustment that seemed to bring it under control, it settled down to slowly working up and down the field. As it got nearer to me I noticed that the weight had been moved well forward from the front wheels so that it offered a greater counter-force. Presumably the driver had miscalculated when making his original setting.

As I returned to my own work I reflected that it was only a few days ago that the Agricultural Wages Board (AWB) was abolished by our incompetent and divisive coalition government. This organisation had the power to set the minimum pay rate and conditions for agricultural workers. It had done so successfully for many years, but this was not good enough for our deregulating government. From 1st October 2013 the national minimum wage and general employment law applies to agricultural work. The AWB was originally established because of the distinctive conditions of employment that apply to agricultural workers - for example, tied housing, the need for irregular hours and seasonal work. Watching the tractor driver I was reminded that statistics usually show agricultural employment (after fishing) at the top of any list of the most hazardous areas of work. Part of the reason for this is that people are often working alone with big, powerful machinery - such as tractors - or managing large, unco-operative animals. In many of the occupations that are placed lower on these lists, such as policing, the rate of remuneration reflects the danger of the job. As of this month that's very unlikely to be the case for farm workers, if indeed it ever was.

The tractor in today's photograph is resting after its days work. Presumably it wouldn't fit in the barn and the farmer seems to be using it as a barrier to prevent the theft of whatever else he's got in there.

Saturday, October 05, 2013

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Autumn is upon us with the leaves of many species of tree starting to change colour. Leaf fall has begun too and our first collection from lawns and gravel can't be too distant. In my garden the flowering cherries are among the earliest to reflect the change that autumn brings, though the maples and silver birches aren't too far behind. The other day I was reflecting that even though, in recent years, the onset of autumn hasn't been marked with quite the dip in temperatures that I remember from, say, twenty or thirty years ago, nonetheless the change in the colour of trees is happening distinctly earlier. Moreover, this is down to a single species - the horse chestnut.

In a post of October 2010 I commented on the impact of the horse chestnut leaf miner moth (Cameraria ohridella) on trees in south-east England and parts of central England: how the burrowing larvae cause leaves to turn brown, become dry and crisp, then fall earlier than they would were the trees not infected. This activity begins in summer, but the way it appears to accelerate the onset of autumnal colour becomes very obvious in late August and September. My photograph of the River Welland and Deeping Gate bridge that I posted a couple of weeks ago features a horse chestnut on the left of the frame exhibiting quite deep browns and oranges due to the activity of this insect pest. I don't have any data on which to base my opinion, but I have the distinct impression that I'm seeing increasing numbers of horse chestnuts that are affected. Certainly if the trend shown in these maps has continued during the past three years then the damage will be quite widespread across much of England and have made significant inroads in the west and north.

Today's landscape photograph doesn't show a horse chestnut but it does show a carpet of leaves from one that has been affected by the leaf miner (the tree is just out of shot). I took it when I recently spent a few days in the area where Cambridgeshire abuts Bedfordshire and Northamptonshire - in what was once the county of Huntingdonshire. More photographs from that trip coming next.

Thursday, October 03, 2013

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I remember reading, a long time ago, the assertion that colours in nature never clash. I have the feeling that it was a well-known artist who was being quoted. I've searched for the source of those words but, despite seeing the sentiment expressed by others, I've never managed to come up with any sort of attribution.

When I first read the statement I had my doubts about the truth of it. Surely, I thought, pink and yellow always look wrong together. I feel the same about purple and orange. And yet as time has gone by I've recognised that there is some truth in the saying; or, should I say, that it leans more towards being true than being false. The fact is that every now and then I test the statement by looking at unlikely colour flower combinations. What I find is that my preconceptions that colours inevitably clash wherever they occur are confounded more often than they are confirmed. I know that testing the truth of a statement by measuring it against the opinion of a single person who, like everyone else, has idiosyncratic views on colour combinations, isn't a terribly scientific way to come to a proper conclusion, but what's a man to do?

A while ago I took a photograph of poppies next to lavender that inadvertently supported the statement and overturned my dislike of purple next to orange, and in the accompanying post I discussed some of the issues I'm returning to today. The other day my wife asked me to photograph a vase of flowers that she had received as a birthday bouquet. This consisted of yellow sunflowers, pink gerbera and purple gladioli, a colour combination that perhaps spoke of the fact that the bunch was chosen with the help of my two year old grand-daughter. Do the colours clash? Interestingly I find that they appear to do so in my photograph, but less so in life. Work that one out if you can?

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

click photo to enlargeThomas Thornycroft (1815-1885) and Mary Thornycroft (neé Francis) (1814-1895), were husband and wife sculptors. They met when Thomas was an assistant to Mary's father, the sculptor John Francis (1780-1861). Their work can be seen at many London locations, but like a lot of public sculptors of the Victorian period, familiarity with their work often doesn't bring recognition of the person (or people) who executed it.

One of the best known works by the Thornycrofts (sometimes John was principally responsible, at other times it was Mary) is the group representing Commerce on the Albert Memorial, though George Gilbert Scott, the architect responsible for the overall design of the Memorial, was critical of both the concept and composition. Another prominent London piece is Boadicea and her Daughters, a bronze of the queen of the Iceni tribe in her chariot, near Westminster Pier by the River Thames. The couple received commissions for civic pieces from many cities as well as for the royal family. Mary completed several busts and statues of Queen Victoria's children.

I recently discovered that the Thornycrofts were responsible for a memorial in Ledbury church, Herefordshire. This marble sculpture shows a sleeping child watched over by two angels. It commemorates the death of a child in the following words:

John Hamilton, the beloved infant son of John Martin and

Maria Henrietta, his wife.

Born April 23rd, 1850. Died March 18th, 1851

The work was apparently conceived by Mary Thornycroft and sculpted by her husband. It is a touching piece and one that was thought of a sufficiently high standard to be shown at the Great Exhibition in 1851.